


Lust for power

by Cirilla9



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Dark Magic, Deception, Drug-Induced Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Hate Speech, Insults, Jewelry, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Rings of Power, Rivalry, Second Age, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: A short story about two Nazgûls. The Witchking of Angmar and Khamûl, Shadow of the East, aren't the best at working out their differences.





	Lust for power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sidomira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidomira/gifts).



> This work is inspired by this amazing artwork created by Phobs: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/66/b5/04/66b5049c63f4658c2d92ea3e58507f67.png

\- Who’s got that stick up your ass? It’s a dining table, not the throne hall of Angmar. You can lose that stiff pose for a moment.

King of Angmar’s hand clenched tighter onto his fork as he heard the familiar voice and knew who was entering the hall without granting him a look.

\- You shall be more concerned about your track of time than thinking up clever remarks. You’re late, - only then he gave his subordinate a condescending look.

As always, he was blinded by the amount of gold the other wore. Long earrings hung against the curtain of black hair, jingling with the every shift he made, which meant all the time. Swarthy arms were covered in bracelets, polished so smooth that they could reflect the light of the candles. Heavy necklace draped with too many beads adorned his chest, exposed (purposefully no doubt) by the tunic material sweeping to the sides.

And the Ring of course, one of the Nine, as they all had, but in Khamûl’s case it would be lost in the crowd if not the power emanating from it.

The little unnerving fox, not ashamed in the slightest, flashed a sly grin around the room and produced something from behind his back. It never ceased to surprise Witchking  – and annoy but that was a constant feeling he got when the easterner was near him – how many things the deceiving wench could hide in his scanty clothes.

Now Khamûl took out the bottle, which consisted alcohol for sure, a wine at best, some hideous eastern drink as kumis at worst, and proceeded to bestow it among their little gathering. He completely ignored the hierarchy, which made the king of Angmar almost break his fork in half. Oh what he’d give for the metal under his crashing grip to be the easterner’s neck instead.

\- One cannot deliberate with no stimulating drinks to wet one’s throat from time to time. As always, - Khamûl materialized just before the Witchking, - you forget about the most important thing.

As always, the king thought wryly, the scheming cat was insolent toward him before the very eyes of the rest of his lieges. The spiteful snake was constantly undermining his authority, daring him for a fight whenever he could.

Conscious of the seven pairs of eyes set on them, Witchking pushed his cup toward the eastern savage and enjoyed the moment his second in command was degraded to the cupbearer’s level as he served the wine. Later he cursed himself by being blinded by the moment of triumph and not noticing the casual twitch of the easterner’s wrist while he was filling the cup with red liquid.

\- It is you who are forgetting your place, as ever. We did not gather to discuss and deliberate on the matter. You should have learned, by now, that I am the highest rank here and you are just following my orders.

\- Highest rank, my ass. In what is the king better than the chieftain? Your western hierarchy base on the order of birth. Your rulers do not have required skills for ruling. _You_ do not have the needed artistry for that. You were just born in the right place in the right time, while I, - he poked his own chest emphatically, - I fought for the leadership. We believe only the best warrior is suitable to lead us. There is a custom that applying for the position of a ruler must defeat all others in a fight. I have fought my way to the throne. I have achieved it through blood and worrisome. How is your meek way better?

\- Do not claim the higher position over me by telling me about your savage customs where everyone can become the chieftain, the bastard or the peasant. You do not have any sense of what the true nobility is.

\- We count nobility by the number of enemies slain in a fight.

\- Because your tribe is too wild to keep a track of who lays with whom and in the end you don’t even know who your father was! In civilized countries of the west this is a permanent stain on one’s honor. Even lord Mairon must think so as he had chosen me to lead, not you.

\- And you’re the leader only because the Master had chosen you! I’ll remind you, you’re not worthy of this position! I would defeat you in a fight!

Fast as a snake, the easterner jumped to where his superior sat and the blade cut the air with inhuman speed, the next moment it was jammed in the wooden table, inch from the Nazgûl leader’s hand.

The Witchking, infuriated now, waved his ringed hand and Khamûl was threw away from him and  strangled for a moment, for the blissful second of silence. But then he managed to break the spell and massaged his throat, barely catching a breath but glaring daggers at his commander at the same time. His dark eyes were blazing with anger, his heavy brows knitted in deep frown.

Looking straight into those eyes of the madman, the Witchking touched the ornamented blade, still stuck in the wood next to him, and the steel rusted in a much quickened pace, turning to dust before the Nine’s eyes.

\- Sit down, you whore’s son and be quiet. You delayed things enough, - said the king coldly in a now quiet room.

The golden fool, much to Witchking’s surprise, listened to him and took his place among them rather peacefully, muttering something about favorite daggers and magical tricks.

 

* * *

 

 

After the meeting was over, the king passed the corridors with the solid intent to go straight to his chambers and spare himself any longer company of the easterner. But when he saw a glimpse of him in the hall, all his previous anger returned, along with something else, and he couldn’t simply walk away. He cornered the smaller man.

\- Can you stand still if only for a moment? You annoy me when you’re moving constantly to and fro.

The answer that came was audacious, as always.

\- Not everyone’s born with a pole up their ass so they can play statue role in a palace.

The Witchking put both hands on Khamûl’s shoulders to immobilize him but the wriggling snake freed himself with catlike movements in a second. It was hard to grasp him with the swiftness of his moves and the unpredictability of his constant shifts and alterations. The bastard rarely spend more than three seconds in one position. It was a great advantage in the fight undoubtedly but infinitely annoying feature on a day-to-day contact.

\- Is there something you wanted from me, lord?

The bastard managed to modulate the title word so it sounded like an insult. Like the reminder of everything he thought of it, of everything he spat at the Witchking earlier.

\- If not, then I’ll go to not offend your aura of pure nobility. I’ve got much more interesting things to do than try to please the westerner that knows nothing of the world of true pleasure.

Khamûl whirled on his heels as if he was really going to leave. The disobedient son of some eastern whore could only dream he was allowed to do that.

The Witchking embraced him from behind, locking his lithe body in a steely grip, pinning his arms to his sides. But the sneaky little bastard twisted them free and reached for his saber swiftly.

\- I wouldn’t do that, - purred the king of Angmar, putting his own blade to the easterner’s throat.

\- Fuck off, - barked Khamûl but let go of his blade.

The king seized the opportunity and unbuckled his sword belt, unarming him and casting his weapon few feet away. He did the same with his own Númenórean steel because now the heavy blade only got in his way. His vassal required two hands engaged to hold him in place properly.

The spiteful lout wriggled in his attacker’s grip so the Witchking pulled him closer, until Khamûl was pressed against his own chest. He didn’t plan on letting his second-in-command slid out of his hands as he finally managed to put them on him.

From such a close proximity the easterner’s hair smelled like citrus fruits. Men shouldn’t smell so nicely. It brought the Númenórean to mind the exotic dancers their Master sometimes sent to them, the supple girls skilled in carnal pleasures. They were dark skinned like his subordinate, adorned with mountains of gold jewelry as well and smelling with perfumes.

\- What are you doing? – demanded Khamûl as the Witchking nuzzled his hair.

\- Just shut up and don’t move for a while.

That made the venomous scorpion trash even more. The king tightened his grip on the other’s waist. His tunic loosened even more so he slid his hand inside enjoying the feeling of the warm flesh beneath it. Of the smooth skin and tensed muscles.

Suddenly he knew what was that that he felt beside anger. He knew what he wanted and he’d take it as befits the ruler of his position, the king of all men.

\- I’m going to teach you a lesson. You’ve got a problem with respecting an authority. I’ll make you submit properly.

\- Get off me.

\- Now that’s not the way to address your superior. Try master.

\- There is only One I’d call that and that isn’t you.

The Witchking pushed him at the wall, Khamûl wriggled trying to get out of the king’s grasp but it only made his hips twitch and his ass rub against the Witchking’s growing arousal, causing even more wanton in the ruler of Angmar.

The east fashioned trousers were surprisingly easy to pull down. Next part was a little confusing. The eastern snake might be as pretty as the girls from wide step across the Rhûn Sea and even wear makeup similar to theirs. But how was he supposed to fit up in that tight hole? He probed it with a finger doubtfully.

Khamûl jerked and took in a hissing breath. Witchking supposed it was a preparation to say something offensive once more but the easterner just snapped impatiently:

\- If you’re gonna fuck me, do it already. There is only this much that I can put up with your sluggishness- - the last breath left him in a gasp as the king of Angmar pushed in, mostly to make him shut up.

It wasn’t an effective method as it turned out for soon Khamûl was crying out with each thrust from behind from his superior. His wails could put to shame prisoners tortured in the dungeons few floors below.

Witchking tried to put a hand to his mouth to gag him but he was bitten to blood so he gave it up instead twisting a hand in the mass of black hair and pulling at it none too gently with each plunge of his cock in the welcoming tight flesh.

After some time Khamûl reached for his own cock and started stroking himself in the rhythm with Witchking’s shoves. The Númenórean couldn’t imagine what could possibly be pleasurable in that for someone in Khamûl’s position but then who could figure out the crazy folk from the east.

Soon he wasn’t thinking at all, there was only heat and friction and smoothness and the desperate need to reach the end.

He wouldn’t even notice Khamûl painting the wall in his semen if not the clenching on his cock that made him come immediately after his second-in-command.

King of Angmar breathed heavily as his pulse rate slowed gradually and all arousal from the peak cooled down. Khamûl was miraculously still for an entire half of a minute, catching his breath. Then, the Witchking withdrew from him and the madman, instead of sliding to the floor or showing any other sign of being exhausted, whirled around, casting his superior a wicked smirk.

The king had half a mind to question that smile but he decided he won’t be goaded by the deceitful bastard. Khamûl didn’t last long before saying him unbidden anyway.

\- So I take it my potion has worked, - he commented casually while they were both tugging their clothes back on.

\- What potion?

Khamûl laughed openly, disrespectfully.

\- For your libido of course. You stupid western people can’t find a way to any other pleasure than a woman’s cunt. I had to handle things on my own. A few droplets of aphrodisiac in your wine and here we’be reached something sensible at last.

Khamûl walked away with a smug expression on his face. Strange, thought the Witchking. He felt like it was him who just get fucked, not the other way around.

The easterner was still annoying but, Witchking concluded, he could live with that if they would cope with it in such a manner.


End file.
